


One Man Cult

by unwinding_fantasy



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys Kissing, Canon Compliant, Eventual Romance, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22288525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwinding_fantasy/pseuds/unwinding_fantasy
Summary: There's an age-old adage: "Don't light yourself on fire to keep someone else warm". (Un)fortunately for Ignis, he missed the memo. [fanart by Mureharts]
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 21
Kudos: 150
Collections: The Ignoct Big Bang 2019





	1. So you can drag me through hell...

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Ignoct Big Bang 2019. I thought I'd just do a mini-bang with some random scenes sitting in my fanfic folder but then I wrote... and kept writing... and made a big bang. Oops?
> 
> Massive thank you to the wonderful Loro ([Mureharts](https://twitter.com/mureharts)/[mureh](https://mureh.tumblr.com)) who brought the most adorable scene to life. They've been so passionate about this project, which has been a huge motivator and inspiration. They even didn't mind when I messed up the posting date. (＠Д＠； Please check out their art for chapter 2 [here](https://twitter.com/Mureharts/status/1219215056224780288?s=19)! (Art is also embedded with permission in chapter 2.) 
> 
> Title is from "Follow You" by Bring Me The Horizon. (Pretty sure Ignis wrote it in between advising and the billion other things he does.)

**i. His Royal Highness Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum (6); Ignis Scientia (8)**

It's an overcast morning when Ignis is ushered through the Citadel's imposing foyer. Pale light filters through the towering arched windows, striking the stone columns and casting long shadows that Ignis must pass through, short legs scurrying to keep pace with his uncle. For as long as he can recall, the Citadel has been Uncle Fidelis' workplace so the grandeur is commonplace to Ignis' young eyes. An advantage, he thinks, imagining how the other candidates will balk when they pass the rows of stern Crownsguard or catch their own reflections in the polished slate floors, the stone visages of ancient Lucii bearing down on them with cold judgement.

They take the elevator up, up, and up, further than Ignis has ever been before. The nerves flutter then, but Ignis tries to school his face to calm, just as he's been instructed. Beside him, his uncle is maintaining a relaxed posture. Without a downward glance, Uncle Fidelis says: "Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't say more than needs must. And for the love of the Six, please don't talk about yesterday."

Ignis sucks in a breath, lets it out evenly. "Understood."

The throne room, manned by a handful of Kingsglaive who look downright deadly up close, is even more impressive than the foyer. While his uncle handles the initial pleasantries, Ignis quietly catalogues the room's layout and occupants. Clarus Amicitia, Shield of the King, sketches a bow and takes his leave. Towards the far windows stands King Regis, tall and grey. When he notices Ignis, his beard twitches with the hint of a smile. The king murmurs a name, shifting enough to reveal a slight figure behind him, clutching the fabric of his jacket.

That's his cue.

“Ignis Scientia,” he says, inclining his head neither too deep nor too shallow, a perfectly calculated degree of respect despite the butterflies havocking his stomach. He's met countless nobles and important figures of state, each dustier and more disinterested than the last, so he’s good at playing cordial. It’s not even his first time meeting King Regis. Prince Noctis is different though. As a scion of House Scientia, traditional servants of the royal family, Ignis is expected to be friends with the young prince, and the weight of expectation is now making him jittery, thoughts he’d dared not previously entertain now clamouring to the forefront of his mind. What if the prince is rude, arrogant, cruel? How will Ignis carry out his duty if he hates everything about him? That wasn't even taking into consideration yesterday's incident, the evidence of which is writ large on Ignis' face. He resists the urge to touch the ugly bruise and ruin the concealer his aunt slathered over his cheek in an attempt at making him look respectable.

"Noct?" the king beckons.

Ignis spies a mop of dark hair. A moment later, a young boy peeks around the king’s leg. He's smaller than Ignis expected, not a speck of regal glamour about him. King Regis raises his eyebrows at his son then tilts his head in Ignis' direction, a small _go ahead_ gesture that Noctis ignores entirely. To save them all the embarrassment, Ignis thrusts out a hand. “Pleased to make Your Highness’ acquaintance.”

Prince Noctis blinks. (And those eyes. Those _eyes_.) He hovers behind his father until it becomes apparent Ignis is letting him dictate how this interaction will unfold. Those big blue eyes widen slightly before crinkling in joy, and he clasps Ignis' hand in both of his. The prince’s palms are soft and warm, slightly sticky in the way young children’s are, like he’s been filching sweets from the kitchens or squishing bugs in the Citadel's extensive gardens. “I’m Noct,” he says with unexpected enthusiasm. Then, a vague bashfulness sweeps over his face as if he’s aware that introducing himself is wholly unnecessary.

No ego. A promising start. Ignis refuses to get his hopes up though. Just as well, because Prince Noctis ruins it by going, "Dad says you don't have a mum either."

“I...” Ignis' skin prickles at the memory. Fire rushing along a passenger side window. The searing sensation of superheated metal on skin. He suppresses a shudder.

"Noct," King Regis chides. "That's no way to speak to your new friend."

"It's quite alright," Ignis says valiantly.

Uncle Fidelis clears his throat, a rare nervous tell. He places a hand on Ignis’ shoulder. "There was an accident, Highness. My sister passed away. Ignis lives with me now.”

"Oh." The prince's voice is very small. His eyes flick to Ignis, who finds shared grief in those fathomless blue depths. It's the same look Ignis sees in his own reflection whenever it’s too hard to repress his emotions. Those eyes have no place on a child so young, he thinks.

Uncle Fidelis is saying, "While it's my enduring hope Your Majesty and His Highness find my nephew suitable, it would be remiss of me not to mention that Ignis' record is... less than pristine. Only yesterday, his teachers caught him with a thunderoc. It took two members of staff to pry the creature away."

Ignis touches the tender spot beneath his eye. If King Regis is unimpressed though he shows no sign. "I trust an intelligent boy like yourself had good reason for toying with a wild animal?" His tone is even, his heavy gaze falling on Ignis like a garula wool blanket. Despite the surprisingly gentle appraisal, a cold chill settles in Ignis' stomach. He drops his hand, annoyed that he'd drawn attention to the injury.

"If it please Your Majesty--” His uncle’s hand tightens around his shoulder but Ignis is committed. “--I wasn't... I wasn't _toying._ It was only a chick that had fallen from its nest." The hapless creature, so far from its natural home near Ravatogh, had been squawking loud enough to bring down the Wall, naked stubby wings flailing, sightless eyes blinking. The pathetic creature had dragged to mind Ignis’ own incompetence back when he’d been sprawled in the dirt beside that road, wreathed in shattered glass, twisted metal and blood. Helpless, just like the poor thunderoc. No way could Ignis have left it there, exposed and alone. "I'd barely picked it up when another student..." Ignis searches for the diplomatic phrase, "...expressed a differing opinion."

“They were scared,” Prince Noctis says.

“Perhaps.” In truth, it was less fear, more jealousy. Bearing the Scientia name had made Ignis a target long before he set foot inside the specialist school generations of his family had graduated from _summa cum laude_. Coupled with his reserved personality, too easily mistaken for aloofness, and it was small wonder he became most hated on campus.

Prince Noctis is watching him carefully, almost like he can detect the turmoil underlying Ignis’ calm. He steps forward; Ignis straightens instinctively. Curiosity shines in the prince’s eyes but Ignis can hardly tell him about that time he’d opened his lunchbox and copped a faceful of frogs, sending his entire class into hysterics. He’d jolted so badly that his onigiri and seaweed salad went sailing away along with his spectacles.

The prince’s fingertips lightly brush Ignis’ bruise. "Weren't _you_ scared?" Ignis shudders at the weird invasion of personal space. He forces himself to endure it, if only because shrinking from the Prince of Lucis won't earn him any accolades.

"Thunderocs only become dangerous once they've fully developed their rectrices," he says instead. When Noctis' brow furrows, Ignis' voice takes on a lecturing tone. This, he can do. "That is, the barbed feathers comprising their tails. The rectrice is necessary for independent flight, which is how they generate electricity. Such advanced hunting tools don't reach completion until they have flown the coop, so to speak."

The prince stares. Ignis’ face flushes. He says, "What I meant to say is it was a juvenile bird, incapable of surviving on its own. It could hardly hurt me." Young, just like Prince Noctis, whose inquisitiveness will always win against whatever vague concept of boundaries he possesses.

"And yet..." the king waves at Ignis' injury, undoubtedly uncovered by Noctis' persistent ministrations.

"Ah." Ignis adjusts his glasses. "A simple misunderstanding, Majesty."

“It was those kids, wasn’t it?” Prince Noctis says.

Ignis' heart lurches into his throat. Beside him, Uncle Fidelis goes very still. There are multiple ways Ignis could deflect but… Well, if Ignis is going to be Noctis’ advisor, he needs to be honest.

“I only meant to save the bird,” Ignis insists, ignoring his uncle's quiet intake of breath. The tale should come naturally considering he's recited it multiple times to the teaching staff and his family. Still, heat creeps up his neck. Uncle Fidelis pinches the bridge of his nose as if to restrain his rising horror -- this is, after all, the one thing Ignis wasn't meant to detail -- but Ignis is committed now so he barrels ahead bravely. "The other boy threatened to stomp on it so I… er..." It was the boy's lackey, some kid who looked like he was on steroids, who'd delivered the punishing blow to Ignis' face. A single thought had drifted through Ignis' mind as he spiralled down into the dust, the grainy taste of dirt mingling with the metallic tang of blood: _It must be nice to have friends._

"You pushed him away," Uncle Fidelis supplies, an understated attempt at mitigating the damage.

"The creature was defenceless."

"So you keep saying."

King Regis strokes his beard, perhaps hiding a smile. He says, "Well, I won't hold that against you." With a pointed glance at Uncle Fidelis: "After all, protective instincts are of the utmost importance for a royal retainer. Wouldn't you agree, Noct?"

"Um, I guess."

"You guess?" the king repeats, and the smile is in his voice now.

Noctis folds his arms. "I get it, the heir of Lucis must be protected, blah blah blah. But if we're gonna be together all the time, isn't it important to make sure we get along?"

"It is,” says the king. “How do you propose we determine that?"

Noctis strokes his chin, an endearing parody of his father that helps settle Ignis nerves. "For starters, does he like fishing? Does he like animals? Is he any good at _King's Knight_?" Uncle Fidelis coughs delicately into his fist; Noctis turns his blue gaze onto Ignis, lips pressed together in a serious line. "Well, are you? The new raid's impossible by myself."

"Er..." Ignis' tongue feels thick and clumsy. That's it. All his training's amounted to nothing purely because he doesn't engage in normal person recreational activities. _King's Knight_ ? Ignis doesn't even _own_ a video game.

But... but the prince is looking at him so earnestly, gnawing at his top lip, fists clenched by his sides. Held breath and held hope, almost like he wants Ignis to say yes.

So Ignis says, "I can learn."

Noctis smiles, and the sun comes in.

* * *

**i. Prince Noctis (7); Iggy (8)**

Ignis raps on Prince Noctis' door, a bag of freshly assembled bento boxes in hand. The Crownsguard on duty leans down to sniff at the teriyaki chicken and makes an appreciative groan when the astringent yet sweet aroma of charred meat hits her nostrils. Ignis' mouth quirks a little. He'd never considered food as a bribery tactic. He makes a mental note to glean some cooking tips from the kitchen staff. If nothing else, practising his culinary skills should act as a nice supplement to that extra class he's just enrolled in, the one that had made Clarus Amicitia's eyebrows nearly shoot clean off his face when Ignis had expressed interest. Apparently, most eight-year-olds aren't cut out for curriculum like _Poisons, Toxins and Controlled Substances._

"Your Highness? Noctis? I've brought lunch."

Silence. Well, it is Saturday. Noctis is likely preoccupied with building low-resolution chunky moogles or something. "No vegetables," Ignis adds, eliciting a snort from the Crownsguard. It isn't entirely true -- there's a side salad, and the gyoza probably contain cabbage -- but Ignis is still trying to work out what he can get away with. Who would've thought _ensure the prince maintains a balanced diet_ would be top of a royal advisor's to-do?

"J-Just a second!"

The just-a-seconds tick by. Ignis fiddles with his security card, debating whether or not to swipe in. Best be accommodating for his new boss though. Muffled thuds and exasperated grumbles filter through the heavy goldendoor. "It's getting cold," Ignis tries, picturing a dishevelled prince hurrying to make himself presentable. He'd wager his freshly pressed royal blacks that Noctis was still in his pyjamas. "Surely you can pause your Minercrafter and come eat?"

The Crownsguard offers a sympathetic smile. "Good luck with that one," she tells him. "Bahamut himself couldn't drag him away from a video game coma." She glances hopefully at the bag. "But hey, if there're no takers, I'll be happy to take that off your hands."

A small eternity later, a ruffle-haired Noctis in mismatched clothes appears at the threshold to usher Ignis inside, sparing a wary glance at the Crownsguard before slamming the door in her face. "It's _Minecraft_ , geez," he says, leaning back against the door with a shaky sigh. Ignis glances at the TV, which displays PAUSE over some atrociously coloured 2D affair, and barely stops himself from shaking his head. He swears Noctis visibly pales when he follows Ignis' line of sight. "You're early," Noctis says, inching between Ignis and the TV as if it's going to help cover the fact that he is not, in fact, playing _Minecraft_.

"You missed breakfast." And hadn't that been fun, a cordial interrogation by the King of Lucis over eggs over easy chased by cup after cup of nervously consumed coffee. Either Noctis and Regis had coordinated to catch Ignis unawares or sitting on a couch staring at a screen was higher on the prince’s priorities. Ignis tries not to let his annoyance show as he sets down the bento box on the dining table and absorbs the state of Noctis’ chambers. It's only been a day since housekeeping. Still, it looks like a washing machine's thrown up on half the couch (mostly heavy woollens and thick socks, all totally weather-inappropriate). On the fringe of this disaster zone sits a poorly concealed cardboard box filled with pom-poms, feathers and other assorted odds and ends, probably liberated from a school's art supply cupboard. The mess, so mundane and typical of a young child, juxtaposed with the ornate sculptures and delicate watercolour paintings decorating the room... Well, it makes for a jarring tableau.

The distinct click of the door's manual lock being engaged doesn't escape Ignis' notice. He wonders why Noctis is barricading him in this chaos.

"Slept in." Noctis’ face pops into Ignis' vision again. "Is that teriyaki?"

"Indeed." Ignis moves to the kitchenette to retrieve placemats and cutlery. "One of your favourites, according to the chefs. Would you mind fetching something to drink while you're there?" he adds, and Noctis jerks up from the fridge where he'd been returning a milk carton that's probably been at room temperature since breakfast. Ignis makes a mental note to discard it before he leaves.

Soon they're settled at the table popping the lids on their meals. The salty-sweet aroma fills the room along with the astringent bite of charcoal. Noctis pokes at his side salad, gaze roaming. "So, you got stuff to do today?"

The forced casual tone piques Ignis' suspicion. What is going on with Noctis today? "Even I have time off, Highness. I thought we might spend the afternoon together. Do try to eat _something."_

Noctis shoves some rice in his mouth. "'ve go' 'omework," he says.

"I see." Ignis says, trying not to feel morally offended by the mashed starchy granules behind Noctis’ teeth. "Your tutor didn't go through it yesterday?"

A slight pinkness suffuses Noctis’ cheeks. He hides behind his cup as he drains his orange juice. "Not all of it."

"I see," Ignis says again. He hadn't meant to offend. Besides, he's seen Noctis’ grades. Noctis is easily top of his class so Ignis isn't sure what there is to be embarrassed about. "Well, if you like, we can finish it together then perhaps take a stroll through the gardens?" Noctis blanches; Ignis hurries to explain. "You've been spending a lot of time there lately so I assumed... Of course, if there's something else..."

A high-pitched _meep_ emanates from across the room. Brows furrowing, Ignis glances over.

Noctis slams down his glass; their lunch dishes clang noisily. _"You know,"_ the prince says emphatically, ignoring the way Ignis practically jumps out of his skin, "I just remembered it's not due until end of next week." He leaps up, chair teetering dangerously, and tugs Ignis' hand, dragging him to the front door. "You wait out here while I get my coat and--"

"Noctis, wait--" Something soft nudges Ignis' ankle. What on Eos...?

Large blue eyes peer up at Ignis, bright hope in a grey-and-white furred face. "A kitten?" Ignis blurts.

"Mew!" the kitten agrees.

The clothes, the milk, Noctis’ frazzled demeanour... It all slips into place. Ignis stares down at the tiny creature, which affectionately headbutts his ankle. Noctis has already been called out for repeatedly ignoring the Citadel's No Animals policy. This time, Ignis can’t imagine he’ll escape with anything less than a grounding.

"Crap," says Noctis. He flushes bright red. "I mean, crap, where did that come from?" He scoops the kitten up; it nuzzles into the crook of his neck, fluffy grey fur mingling with Noctis' uncombed hair, pint-sized paws flexing against the thin material of his t-shirt. Noctis winces a little but doesn't recoil. Despite the precarious circumstances, Ignis can’t help but smile.

"I take it this is why you've been wandering the gardens every other day?" he says.

Noctis buries his nose in the kitten's ashy fur and mumbles something. When he glances up it’s with the most pleading light in his eyes. “I found her after school one day. Her mama…” Soft as new sunrays, he whispers, “She’s all alone."

Ignis assesses the small smudge of a cat. It's against the rules, yes, but there's no harm in showing the poor thing some affection. Besides, his allegiance is to Noctis. If the prince wants it, Ignis supposes he should accommodate. Slowly, he reaches out. The kitten's ears twitch forwards as she sniffs Ignis' fingers, little nostrils flaring before she gives Ignis another head bump.

"Her name's Mog," Noctis says, smiling as Ignis scratches under her chin. The resounding purr is loud enough to wake Noctis even in his deepest slumber. "Huh. It took me a whole week of bringing her food before she'd let me do that."

"My mother loved cats. She used to feed the neighbourhood strays..." Before. Ignis quickly re-focuses his attention on Mog.

Noctis hops from one foot to the other. "You're not gonna tell, are you?" He doesn’t say please. Ignis supposes it wouldn’t be proper anyway.

Ignis knows he should but he’s powerless against the pincer attack of Mog’s cuteness and Noctis’ desperation. "Don't worry. I'm good at keeping secrets," Ignis promises. He’s also skilled at hiding things. Bad days at the academy have cultivated Ignis' knack for finding hidden vaults and secret nooks, for seeing _more_ where others see nothing.

“Thanks, Iggy.”

Ignis tries to ignore the warm, fluttering feeling in his chest that the nickname brings. "But her diet needs to be overhauled. Cats are lactose intolerant so we must find an animal-specific brand of milk. We don't want her getting sick. Also, she'll need to be immunised and wormed, and it's important to trim an indoor cat's claws, so..."

Despite their best precautions (including copious amounts of sticky rollers to keep Noctis’ belongings fur-free), their efforts are futile. When a playful Mog stealth swipes an unwitting maid from beneath the bed, the maid’s ensuing scream sends Noctis tossing his controller into the air. Ten minutes later, Ignis and Noctis are dragged into the main audience chamber where they’re met with twin stern gazes from King Regis and Clarus Amicitia.

“Nice knowing you,” Noctis whispers out the side of his mouth.

“Does Your Highness find this amusing?” Clarus snaps. Noctis winces. Nobody else can weaponize their voice quite like Clarus.

Seated high on the throne, King Regis looks every bit the imposing judge. “Rules are rules, Noctis. What right has a king to demand obedience of his subjects if he can’t even follow a simple policy?”

Noctis’ face falls. “I know...”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve flaunted Citadel policy. You knew the consequences,” Clarus says.

“I know...”

The king’s entire body moves like he’s sighing. There’s nothing soft in his voice when he says, “I’m sorry, son, but you leave me no choice. A suitable punishment must be enforced.”

“...” Noctis’ entire body wilts under his father’s palpable disappointment. Through great effort, he manages to croak out, “What’re you gonna do with her?”

And it’s this -- the fact that Noctis is more concerned about the cat’s welfare than his own -- that compels Ignis to speak.

"With all due respect," Ignis interjects. Clarus' mouth snaps shut, lecture aborted as surprise flicks across his face. From the throne, King Regis leans forward. Ignis takes a deep breath. "I believe there's been a mistake. The kitten was mine. I thought it would be a therapeutic tool for His Highness.”

“Oh?” says the king.

Ignis clears his throat. This part, he’s rehearsed. “Cats are known to reduce the risk of heart attack. Their purring can aid in the recovery of sore muscles and bones. They provide emotional comfort and teach responsibility. Also, they can help regulate sleep. Er, not that His Highness needs help on that particular front.”

“So you believe the judgement of a mere boy is superior to longstanding legislation?”

Ignis bows. “I leave that to Your Majesty’s discretion.”

There’s a sharp intake of air from Clarus, probably winding up for a blistering scolding, but he’s cut off by a bark of laughter from King Regis. Fists balled at his sides, Noctis glances from one to the other, chewing the inside of his cheek as he tries to track where this conversation is heading. The hint of a smile ghosts over Clarus’ mouth. “Looks like you’ve picked a clever one, Reg.”

“We can thank my son for that too. Well, Noctis? Do you corroborate your advisor’s story?”

Ignis locks gazes with Noctis, gives an almost imperceptible nod. Noctis’ eyes dart from Ignis to Clarus. Finally, he reaches the king. Whatever he sees there chases away his fear. “It was my idea,” Noctis says.

King Regis sighs. “What am I going to do with you boys?”

“Let us off the hook?” Noctis suggests hopefully.

The king cracks a smile. “I think not. No, for something like this, only a life sentence will suffice. Your punishment...” He strokes his beard. “Your punishment is to care for your cat until such time that it no longer needs care.”

Clarus heaves a put-upon sigh. Ignis and Noctis exchange a glance. A slow smile grows on the prince’s face; Ignis feels a reciprocal grin forming on his own.

“And broccoli for a month.”

“Aww, _Dad!”_

* * *

**iii. Noct (8); Ignis (10)**

He's filing into an exam when he gets the text: _Royal motorcade accident. Numerous casualties. Noct okay._

The words run together, a stream of nonsensical words that twists Ignis' stomach inside-out. He counts backwards from twenty then re-reads it.

Noct was in an accident.

Noct was in an accident and people were injured.

Noct was in an accident and people were injured and _Ignis wasn’t there._

Bile burns the back of his throat. Brutally, Ignis quashes the urge to dump everything and run to his best friend's side. Those last two words -- _Noct okay --_ act as his lifeline as he slides into his allocated seat while the examiners bark instructions he doesn't hear. _Can’t do anything about it now,_ he reasons, trying not to imagine a bloodied Noct sprawled out on some unfamiliar tarmac attended by a court of glass shards and metallic refuse. _Just like her._ Ignis can't remember much of his mother but he can recall the crash with painful clarity. Limbs akimbo, unseeing eyes. The family car burning, burning, burning. Was Noct burning too?

_Don't._

He sets out his pens and pencils and calculator as the stench of disinfectant, a poor mask for the miasma of wrongness that permeates hospitals, now invades his nostrils. The student sitting in front of him begins nervously tapping her grey lead at the exact cadence of a heart-rate monitor. Was Noct in hospital now? Were they pumping him full of drugs that were meant to fend off infection and make his brain work?

_**Don't.** _

Ignis grits his teeth, flips open the paper when the examiners give the go-ahead. Organic chemistry is fairly rudimentary, Ignis the envy of his non-genius classmates because he's usually a master at mapping benzene rings and alkyl groups, and what did “okay” mean anyway? Did okay mean unscathed, or did it imply some degree of injury? Eyes tripping over the problems, feeling like he's going to regurgitate his breakfast all over his stoichiometry, Ignis scribbles nonsense for answers. Before he’s even out of the hall he’s hitting call.

Uncle Fidelis' voice, tinny through the receiver, sounds steady as always. “A daemon of some description. The details are hazy. I know text wasn’t ideal but I wanted you to hear it from me first rather than some news outlet.”

Ignis exhales, a slow and shaky breath that does nothing for the nausea. “That would have been terrible, yes. It's good to know he's okay. I appreciate your candor, Uncle.” He puts enough edge into the last that he might as well be saying _I'll never forgive you if you're hiding anything._

Uncle Fidelis clears his throat. Then, "Perhaps I haven't been entirely forthcoming. Prince Noctis _is_ okay but... Well, it's best explained in person."

Ignis' feet grind to a halt. He lowers the phone, closes his eyes. Swallows. A tide of students, all older and bigger than him, streams from the hall. Ignis remains motionless, buffeted by his classmates, countless catastrophes swirling through his mind. He feels his eyes turn glassy, the hall fading out of sight, flickering like the television when Noct's retro video games skip.

"--nis? Ignis?"

Ignis pinches his tear ducts. "I'm here." Wouldn't do to break down, not now. He's already lived the reality of being unable to help somebody he loves. _Hold it together, Scientia,_ he thinks, fending off panic with the knowledge that he comes from a long line of capable individuals. If he leaves now he can be at the Insomnian Royal by six.

Uncle Fidelis continues as if Ignis' entire world isn't rupturing. "I said His Majesty used magic to heal the immediate damage but Prince Noctis has fallen into a coma. He's in Saint Ajora's near the border. Once he's awake, I imagine they'll move him to Tenebrae proper. Nobody is better at healing than the Oracle, after all." Another pause. "Are you okay, Ignis?"

"Sorry. Yes, I'm fine." Tenebrae is further than Ignis had anticipated but he has enough money to get there. Of course, he'll have to stop by Noct's rooms and piece together a care package (cat paw print pyjamas; that Altissian soap he likes that’s only stocked by one place in the entire city; the homework his teacher emailed, just in case...)

His uncle's voice cuts into his ruminations **.** “Shall I stop by tonight? We can go to that dumpling house near the library.”

Even the idea of tomalley-filled dumplings makes Ignis' stomach roil. “I'll have to pass. I still have a thermodynamics exam tomorrow."

"Very well. Call me if you need any help." It's a clumsy way to indicate he's there for him but Ignis appreciates it all the same. "And Ignis. Don't do anything rash."

Uncle Fidelis is right. There's nothing to be gained by Ignis racing across half the continent with his bag of practicals, things Noct won't even be able to see. Besides, the Wall is probably restricted access now. In all likelihood, nobody is going in or out. "I won't."

He kills the call. He stares at his phone for a few seconds. There’s always the slight possibility the Wall won’t be locked down for Noctis’ advisor.

He dials again.

"Hello, I need a taxi. The address is..."

The journey passes in a blur. Ignis isn’t properly thinking when he asks the driver to wait while he gathers Noct's belongings, mind stuck in a purgatory of the rush of fire along passenger side windows, the stink of petrol fumes. The helpless wails of a child versus the terrible silence where a heartbeat should be. The huge bruise stretching from shoulder to waist where the seatbelt crushed into him, which lasts for a good month and turns buttoning the suit he wore to the funeral into an impossible task.

His vision's misty when he bolts from Noct's bedroom and collides with Uncle Fidelis. Noct's things go flying, hitting the ground with an ugly thud. Ignis, breaths coming in great gasps like he's run up the stairs from the basement to the throne room, barely registers the carnage.

"It's okay," his uncle says. He pats Ignis, a little awkwardly, and it's this display of sympathy that makes something in Ignis crumble, mind degenerating into a cacophony of squealing metal. “He’ll be okay.”

Ignis doesn’t want to think about it. If nothing else, the reflexive reaction is confirmation of how in the span of a few short years, Noctis has become the most important person in Ignis’ life. The thought of failing somebody he loves _again,_ in the exact same circumstances…

Why has he worked so hard at knowledge acquisition if it can all be undone in a heartbeat?

Ignis cries into his uncle’s perfectly ironed shirt. In his mind, he can’t help calculating all the ways the situation could have been avoided. Maybe things would have been different if the motorcade had taken a back road or noticed the black pit opening up before it was too late, if they hadn’t stuck under the speed limit, if the driver had swerved earlier. And maybe it’s arrogant, but the thought rattles around Ignis’ mind with the persistence of a voretooth that’s hooked its prey: _Perhaps even my presence could have somehow helped him._

Ignis spends the entire night Moogling minimum driving age in Lucis and watching videos on defensive driving techniques.

* * *

 **i** **v** **. Noct (8); Ignis (10)**

Two things happen after the attack on Tenebrae. One: Noct refuses to eat. Two: Ignis starts cooking for him on a regular basis. (Who would've imagined that course regarding how to conceal poisons would translate into how to hide vegetables?)

Until now, Ignis had always suspected Noct could get along well enough without him. After the fourth consecutive night of Noct plagued by horrific dreams, home remedies all exhausted, King Regis asks for Ignis’ help.

Ignis finds his best friend tucked up in bed, curled around Mog like a lifesaver while he strokes her smoky hair as if through great effort. Ignis slips in beside him, zero care for crumpling his business attire, and gives over to running warm hands through his hair, gently unsnarling each knot, wishing it was as easy to untangle Noct's grief. He finds new use for those lessons on maintaining an even tone and restraining his emotions, utilising soothing words and soft gestures, the same sort he'd use for coaxing a wounded animal out of a dangerous spot. Nobody else can fill the pained fractures in Noct's heart, and Ignis can’t help but take pride in knowing that at a time when Noct doesn't want anybody else, Ignis is the exception.

 _Disgusting_ , he thinks. He leaves as soon as Noct's breathing evens out.

Night seven. If not for the surrounding tragedy, Ignis would think it's almost perfection, lying there with the prince curled against his side, head buried in the crook of Ignis' arm, Mog stretched above their heads like a personal pillow. Staring up at the lightless ceiling, Ignis' mind drifts. Words like _symbiosis_ and _mutualism_ intersect with the concept of needing and being needed, the visceral rush he gets whenever he fulfils Noct's needs. What he's doing goes beyond simple service. Half-asleep, defences down, Ignis reaches the logical conclusion: it's not just the feeling of being useful that he craves so much. It's the feeling of being useful _to Noctis._

“I should have been there,” he whispers into the dark.

Noct takes a shuddering breath -- Ignis startles; he'd thought the prince was sleeping -- and lets it out in jagged slivers “Not like you could’ve done anything." Noct’s voice is fragile as starlight. Mog meows piteously. "They probably would’ve,” he swallows, hands tightening in Ignis' shirtfront, “would’ve got you too.” He dissolves into quiet sobs, each one sending an answering ache through Ignis’ entire heart.

Ignis wonders how much worse it is to see actual people bleed out before your eyes, how it compares to watching your father switch off your mother’s life support. He thinks about irreversible situations and the cold neglect of Astrals, how prayers are nothing but pretty words. All the strength in the world couldn't have saved Ignis' mother but it wasn't a dangerous corner and bad weather that killed those Tenebraeans. He gathers his best friend into his arms and begins rubbing slow circles on his back, avoiding the slow-healing slash from shoulder to waist.

Noct chokes out, "Stay. Please."

Ignis utters the only word he possibly could.

The following day, he visits Marshal Leonis and asks about the Crownsguard.


	2. ...if it meant I can hold your hand.

**v. Noct (16); Specs (18)**

_Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz._

Ignis' eyes crack open. He fumbles for his glasses and phone. New text message:

_Could you please come get me? I don't feel too crash hot._

Ignis sighs into his empty dorm room, wondering why he'd even bothered moving out of the Citadel, and rubs the sleep from his eyes. His phone vibrates again. This time there's a Moogle Maps image and _I'm here._ The proper punctuation is a dead giveaway, the words of somebody who's trying to imagine how a prince might message his chamberlain. If circumstances were different, Ignis might prolong the torture by requesting specifics of Noct's schedule but there's no room for good humour in the dead of night. He taps out a succinct response: _Where is he this time, Prompto?_

Dots appear on the screen. Disappear. Ignis sighs again and calls.

 _"Sorry..."_ is the first word out of Prompto's mouth.

He puts Prompto on speaker -- the heavy thud of music filters through, so dissonant in his quiet room -- and rests the phone on his bedside table as he shrugs into yesterday's suit. "It's quite alright, Prompto." The lie rolls off his tongue with ease. No need to upset the boy, especially considering Ignis is under no illusions about whose idea this was. Whatever "this" is. While he fastens his belt, he leans over to open the map, squinting at the image. Downtown Insomnia, an area filled with bars and nightclubs and more unsavoury establishments, places Ignis wouldn't be caught dead in. Well, unless Noct happened to be there. He grimaces. "Is Noct okay?"

Prompto's voice warbles with worry. "He's, I dunno, he's had a bit to drink and now he's throwing up and--" A wet sloshing sound drifts through the receiver. Ignis sniffs. He raids the medicine cabinet and grabs the box of tissues off his bedside table as Prompto continues fretting. "I tried to talk him out of it but you know what he's like. Please hurry."

"Keep him awake if you can," Ignis instructs, fully aware that Noct staying conscious is about as likely as Noct falling in love with cauliflower. Can't hurt to try though.

En route, Ignis chugs the Ebony he'd stashed in the glove box for emergencies like this. There's hardly any traffic at this hellish hour so he has a good run until he hits the neon-strewn tackiness of the nightclub strip. Here, the crowds are intense. Scantily-clad patrons spill out of the bars and into the streets, some clutching garbage bins or drunkenly howling like demented sabreteeth, and Ignis has to slow to avoid their unpredictable staggering. At the next set of lights, a brawl breaks out and during the commotion, a bottle winds up ricocheting off the windscreen so Ignis floors it (well, as much as the speed limit permits). As he progresses down the strip, the structures turn degenerate and the clientele seem more... _Adventurous_ , the diplomatic part of his brain provides helpfully as he parks. Lots of people, he notes, so he snatches Noct's baseball cap off the back seat and tucks a pair of sunglasses into his top pocket before stepping out of the car and... _Oh Noct. Really?_

A squat, industrial-looking building hunched between two bigger clubs, the entrance obscured by a haze of cigarette smoke supplied by the leather-clad youths loitering at the threshold. It's grungy in a way that makes Ignis' skin want to crawl right off his body. He taps out a message to Prompto to confirm his exact location and glances up at the aggressive font scrawled above the crimson-lit entrance: HEAD HUNTERS. "Marvellous," he mutters. At least three people whose faces look more metal than skin give him a double-take.

Prompto's reply is instant: _Still in the bathroom. Out in a jiffy_.

"Hey, um, you lost, dude?"

Tucking away his phone, Ignis takes stock of this interloper. Acid green mohawk. Poorly done tattoos, clearly visible beneath the torn black tank top. Periwinkle blue eyes underscored by heavy eyeliner. His smile's friendly enough but the eyes are insipid. "Just waiting for a friend," Ignis says.

"Oh." Mohawk looks towards his buddies. Some behemoth of a man who'd give Gladio a run for his money meets Ignis' eyes. His phone looks tiny in his hand and there's something vaguely familiar in the famished expression that quickly overruns his face, but Ignis can't quite place him, another frustration to add to tonight's growing list. Musclehead kills his call. The look he flashes Ignis is all teeth, zero mirth -- a predatory smile, one that's quickly replaced by a friendly grin and thumbs up for Mohawk's benefit. Taking heart, Mohawk turns back to Ignis and offers a coy smile. "Well, if your friend bails..." He lowers his eyelids, tongue darting out to moisten his lower lip.

Ignis frowns. The guy's eyes are annoying. "I'll be sure to keep you in mind," he says.

The guy takes a half-step forward, thinks better of it, then slinks back to his friends, muttering something like "stuck-up jerk". Musclehead is on his phone again. He stubs out his cigarette and starts stomping towards Ignis.

A quick text to Prompto -- _Stay right there. I'm coming to you._ \-- then Ignis makes his tactical retreat, slipping the bouncer a criminally large amount of money before he's reluctantly waved within. It's impossible to tell if Musclehead's following him but Ignis makes haste anyway, resisting the urge to hold his breath as he delves into the humid din. The world distills to darkness cut by white and red strobes, a danceable drumbeat, metal and perspiration and heat. The entire room's undercut by the pungent smell of strong alcohol and Ignis has to force himself to breathe as he skirts the writhing mass, frowning at the darkly suggestive lyrics as he squeezes past men in various states of undress, trying his best not to accidentally touch anything or anybody. Those gloves he's taken to wearing for weapons training would be useful for these late night call-outs, he thinks as he elbows open the bathroom door.

He'd hoped to retrieve the wayward prince with no fanfare. Unfortunately, there's already a commotion at the end stall. Two men, half-intoxicated judging by their sloppy movements, are trying to wrench open the door.

"Get out here, you little shits!" the taller man bellows. He's noodle thin, and even taller than Ignis.

The shorter guy gives Ignis an inquisitive glance. "We just wanna talk," he says sweetly, probably for Ignis' benefit. "You owe my friend here a drink."

"Your _friend_ ran into us." That's Prompto. "So he can rack off, 'kay thanks bye." The words bounce around the cubicle with surprising conviction. Ignis can't help but feel impressed.

"You bastard! I'm gonna rip your chocobo's arse of a head right off your shoulders and--"

"Gentlemen," Ignis intervenes, "Please forgive my friend's rudeness. I trust this will settle the matter." He retrieves another hefty amount of money from his wallet, making a show of counting it out, watching their hungry eyes tracking every note.

Before he's done though, Noodle Man stalks over and snatches the cash from his hand. "This'll barely cover our drinks," he says without even looking. "What about my clothes, eh?" He leans into Ignis' personal space. A fetid mix of alcohol, convenience store cologne and salty bar snacks invades the advisor's nostrils as his antagonist leers, "How you gonna make up for that, pretty boy?"

Ignis clenches his fists, an exercise in restraint or a prelude to violence, he's not sure. All he knows is he's sleep-deprived, put-out, and worried, that song is incredibly grating, and the quickest way to Noct is through this moron. It's a matter of efficiency. Totally acceptable. So, in his most caustic tone, he says, "I'm afraid there's no cure for terrible fashion sense."

It works. A feral yell and Noodle Man's throwing a haymaker -- slowly, agonizingly slowly, and way off-kilter. Disappointing really, and Ignis barely has to step back for the punch to sail safely past. He uses the baseball cap to smothers the guy's face then sweeps his legs out from underneath him. Ignis' attacker lands flat on his back. The other guy raises his hands, palms out, and backs away until he gets past Ignis, after which there's a bunch of scrambling sounds chased by the screech and thud of the bathroom door closing.

That should be the end of it. Unfortunately, Noodle Man can't tell when he's outclassed. He staggers to his feet, tries another punch. This time, Ignis goes in low for the counter, a precise blow to the solar plexus that leaves the man doubled over retching on the filthy concrete floor.

Noodle Man goes, "Uhhhnnn."

Ignis goes, "Pardon me," and steps on the guy's fingers as he walks past. "All clear, Prompto."

"Ignis? That really you?"

"In the flesh."

The end stall opens; Prompto's head pokes out. He offers a weak smile. "Hear that, Noct? We're saved!"

An unintelligible groan is his only reply.

 _Please let it not be as bad as it sounds_. A perfunctory prayer to all Six then he sidesteps Prompto and peers into the stall. Slumped beside a cracked toilet bowl that might've been white once, Noct looks like he's gone three rounds with Cor the Immortal. His hair's a disaster, his shirt's missing, his eyes are barely staying open, and his pants -- some ghastly vinyl affair that makes Ignis physically ill -- are speckled with vomit. Keeping Prompto at bay is the blue light of Noct's magic fizzing along his exposed skin like irregular bursts of static electricity, a far cry from the powerful currents he normally employs when warping or fighting, but probably enough to sting. Ignis is quite accustomed to this unfortunate side-effect of Noct's hormones, the awakening Lucian power trying to carve out a place beneath his skin. King Regis claims it will settle once Noct accepts it. For his part though Noct isn't exactly enthused about the prospect of filling his father's shoes.

"I kept him awake," Prompto, hovering over Ignis' shoulder. In that moment, Ignis loves him a little for braving Noct's unpredictable magic.

Noct's gaze skips over Ignis. Returns. "Why're _you_ here? _"_

Even full of disdain, his voice makes Ignis' stomach twist. It takes a colossal effort to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, Ignis leans down and jams the baseball cap on Noct's head with a touch more force than required. "I should be asking you the same thing. Didn't we have this conversation last weekend?"

Beneath the alcohol, it's hard to tell if Noct's blushing. He squirms. The horrible shiny pants squeak offensively. "That was different."

"Why, because you weren't dressed like the back seat of a car?"

"Specs, please. I'm dying here." The words slide into each other. If Ignis hadn't had so much practice deciphering them this past month he'd probably have no clue what Noct was saying. Part of him truly is sick of this calling-Ignis-at-all-hours thing, especially when he has class at eight. The greater part though melts under those woeful, look-after-me eyes. _Is being too forgiving a character flaw?_ Ignis wonders as he slips the sunglasses onto Noct's face. Noct dissolves into a series of dry heaves and Ignis' resolve shatters completely.

"Well, we'd best not deprive Lucis of its future king," Ignis says, dialling up the snark to hide the fact that he's secretly pleased Noct needs him. "Is this the product of too much tequila or are there other, more sinister contributors to your intemperance?"

"I didn't take anything," Noct swears.

"Very good. And are you still vomiting?"

A withering look, detectable even behind the sunglasses. "What do you think?" Ignis cocks an eyebrow. A little sheepishly, Noct amends. "Kinda? Nothing's coming out."

"I see. Well, we can work with that. Here." Ignis passes him a pill; Noct slips it under his tongue without question but Ignis explains anyway. "An anti-emetic. It will stop your stomach from spasming." Gently, he drapes his jacket around the prince. "Now, let's get you home." He loops Noct's arm over his shoulder; the heat of Noct's body against his is welcome distraction from the regurgitated remnants of whatever the hell Noct's ingested this evening. Under different circumstances, Ignis might even enjoy it. As if reading Ignis' mind, Noct's magic sparks.

"Up and at 'em!" Prompto pulls on Noct's free arm but there's no room for the lot of them to shuffle out together so Ignis ends up taking most of Noct's weight. With Prompto as point, they sidle past the incapacitated man and back into the main area.

Navigating the dingy labyrinthine club is harder with a debilitated Noct in tow. Prompto does his best to usher them through, babbling the entire time about how sorry they are and how it'll never happen again (exactly what he said last time), but he's more wriggling his way through gaps than cutting a path for his companions. Maybe Ignis should've called Gladio? But no, Gladio would tell Clarus, who would tell Regis. Noct didn't deserve that. In all honesty, neither did Ignis. Last time Ignis had confided in him, Gladio had levelled him with a glare and grunted, "Six, ain't you got any boundaries? We're his servants, sure, but sometimes teaching responsibility means _not_ doing every godsdamned little thing for him. Don't set yourself on fire just to keep Prince Charmless warm."

Eventually, they spy the exit. There's a crowd, larger than before, voices raised in excitement. Ignis stops at the threshold but Prompto's too fast. When he steps out, a cacophony of voices greets him and some distinct flashes, too irregular to be strobes. Within milliseconds, Prompto's back inside, a harried expression on his face. "The press," he breathes. "How did they--?"

"Never mind all that," Ignis interjects. That behemoth-proportioned man from earlier, the one with the wolfish eyes... Ignis recognises him now. He's a reporter for the _Insomnian Star_. Only last week, he'd concocted some ridiculous article about Ignis and Gladio dating just because Ignis had been spotted helping clean the fresh tattoos on Gladio's back. There'll be trouble if he spots Noct. Ignis closes his eyes, visualising the layout of the club. "There's an emergency exit right beside the bathrooms. Noct, do you think you can get there?"

Prompto bounces on the balls of his feet. "I'll go with him."

"Actually, Prompto, I'll require your assistance here." Prompto's face pales. Probably nervous about getting chewed out. "No need for concern, just be yourself. Well, Noct?"

Noct goes to run a hand through his hair, encounters the baseball cap. He clenches his fists instead. "I can do it." The magic crackles around his hands, a direct response to his determination.

"Excellent. Now, here's the plan..."

One impromptu press conference and one frazzled Prompto later, Ignis is pulling into the alleyway behind the club. Somehow, Prompto tamps down his embarrassment at acquiring Ignis as a pretend boyfriend enough to buckle Noct in then they're off.

The drive passes in silence that's only sporadically broken by Prompto's aborted attempts at conversation. When Ignis drops him off, all Prompto can say is, "Thanks a million. And, ah, I'm sorry about, you know."

"Don't be. I'm sorry I roped you into the whole fiasco." Poor Prompto had looked ready to pass out when Ignis had draped his arm over him and smiled congenially for the cameras. The press never noticed the venom beneath Ignis' charm. "Perhaps avoid _The Insomnian Star_ tomorrow."

A valiant grin. "Didn't you know my tabloid name is Sir Sleeps-around-a-lot?" Ignis chuckles, the first real laugh he's had all night. Prompto relaxes into a smile. "Seriously though, they already think I'm dating Noct so why not give 'em something spicy and add you to the drama?" The bare hint of complaint in his tone is one Ignis well understands. Being hounded by the press is never fun. He gives Prompto an empathetic half-smile as they exchange goodbyes and Prompto vanishes inside his cosy apartment.

A moment later, the door swings open again. "Hey, Ignis? Try not to go too hard on him. He's only an idiot when you're not around."

Ignis doesn't know what to make of that. "Noted."

He drives Noct around until he looks slightly less like he's shambled out of a B-grade horror film then parks beneath Noct's apartment complex. One arm securely around Noct's waist, Noct's arm slung over Ignis' shoulders, they slowly make their way up and within, the security guards saluting awkwardly as they shuffle past. When Ignis fumbles with his keys, the sunglasses slide dejectedly off Noct's nose and clatter to the floor. _Astrals give me strength_ , Ignis thinks, making a mental note to pick them up when he leaves. Honestly, Noct appears more sleepy than drunk at this point, but he'd probably use intoxication as the excuse for leaning most of his weight against Ignis, dragging his feet in a way that suspiciously maximises contact time. As Ignis nudges the door open, he feels a warm caress along his side; the magic ripples contentedly over Noct's skin. It's the closest they've been since Ignis started college. Something about 3AM gives rise to hazy half-realised words of appreciation tumbling from Noct's lips, to Ignis' gracious acceptance where usually he would deflect and insist it was all in the name of duty. There's a bit of awkward manoeuvring as Ignis helps Noct slip out of the suit jacket, hanging it on a peg near the front door, then stoops to undo Noct's boots. Of course, the instant they cross the threshold, Mog comes trotting up with her tail slowly waving as she headbutts the back of Ignis’ legs with such force he risks face-planting into Noct’s feet.

"Hello, little one," Ignis says, scratching Mog beneath her chin.

Mog purrs appreciatively. Noct crouches down too, ruffling her fur, offering her that secretive smile he reserves for those he loves. Ignis feels his chest constrict. And maybe it's exhaustion kicking in, or the lack of coffee, or that essay on _The Goverment Structure of the Accordo Proctectorate Under Niflheim Occupation,_ but Ignis can't fight off the thought anymore: even a blind man would find Noctis beautiful, bared and vulnerable, zero bravado and all heart. This is exactly why he’d elected to stay on campus. The expression on Noct's face when Ignis had turned down his offer of staying in the same apartment block had nearly made Ignis crack, but he'd known it was for the best.

 _Knew_ it was for the best. Countless hours whiled away at the arcade with Prompto agreed.

Although, Prompto had seemed less than thrilled with the idea of...

Ignis shakes his head. Straightens. Slips off his shoes. While a remarkably sobered-up Noct continues lavishing Mog with cuddles, Ignis begins clearing the creased clothes, empty soda cans and half-finished chip packets off the couch. He shouldn't be thinking about Noct and Prompto. Shouldn't be thinking about Noct, period. Besides, he may have little idea who or what Noctis is interested in, but he’s pretty sure you don’t want those you’re romantically inclined towards picking up your dirty socks.

"Sorry," Noct mumbles from too close behind him.

"It's quite alright," Ignis says, hating the way his whole body responds to the voice, hairs on his arms pricking up like soldiers at attention. He presses the pyjama top he's unearthed from beneath a pillow into Noct's hands. "Here."

Auto-pilot is easier, Ignis thinks as he fills the kettle and sets it boiling, fishing two mugs out of the cupboard. Next, he ducks into the bedroom. Noct’s matching pyjama pants are probably buried somewhere under the refuse littering the bed, stuff Ignis doesn't have the willpower to scrutinise, not tonight anyway, so he just gathers the lot and deposits it on a chair to be dealt with later. The entire room smells of exertion: sweat and pheromones and the electric scent of magic that clings everywhere Noct touches nowadays, all chased by a vaguely cool aroma that makes Ignis think of long nights on the Citadel’s rooftop gazing towards Tenebrae.

 _What’s wrong with me?_ Ignis wonders as he realises he’s breathing deeper than usual. He grits his teeth. Noct can find his own godsdamned pyjama bottoms, he thinks as he makes a hasty exit.

This, it turns out, is the wrong decision. Noct's kicked off his shoes and switched into the black t-shirt. He's also shimmied out of the vinyl pants and is currently reclined on the couch with one arm thrown across his face, the other draped across his stomach, legs shamelessly stretched out, swathes of pale skin on full display. If he has any inkling how much he’s torturing Ignis, he’s doing an excellent job hiding it.

"I'm off," Ignis says, totally not noticing the way Noct's t-shirt has ridden up and exposed a trail of coarse black hair from his navel down past the waistband of his boxer briefs. In the background, the kettle starts whistling, high-pitched and demanding, but Ignis can’t stay here a moment longer. He stalks past.

Something flickering and warm curls around Ignis’ wrist. When he glances down, he finds blue lightning binding him. It’s gentle though, quietly pulsating in tandem with Ignis’ heart beat.

"Specs."

A single low word. Edged with yearning, it’s like a hook straight to Ignis’ heart. He wills his feet to keep moving but he’s interrupted by a solid tug on his wrist, more forceful than the magic. Noct’s hand, drawing him closer. “Noct--” he protests.

“I missed you,” Noct says, which is a lousy warning really.

A soft press of dry lips. The taste of mint chased by a slight lingering sourness. Ignis can't bring himself to care, can't bring himself to think, weakened by Noct's sure fingers twining through his hair. It’s horrible, Ignis thinks, his entire being suddenly flooded with sensation after so many months of disconnection. Definitely horrible. The scent of ozone fills his lungs as Noct kisses him and kisses him and Ignis feels like his entire body’s liquefying, pouring into his prince. How long has Ignis loved him, the young man whose smile marks the start of Ignis' summer, who's as devoted to Ignis as Ignis is to him? Noct, who is desperate and afraid, who is trying so hard to forget that his father is dying, that soon _he_ will be wasting away too.

It's that last thought that makes the advisor's heart crack.

As much as it is selfish, as much as it is for Ignis... this is for Noct too. To hell with the Council. Defiance burning in his veins, Ignis kisses him back.

[ ](https://i.imgur.com/67bhUOP.jpg)

It's Mog who has more sense than both of them. She leaps over the back of the couch onto Noct's chest, shoving her furry face between the two of them and meowing sharply.

"Um," says Noct which quickly turns into spluttering as he cops a mouthful of white-tipped cat tail. His chest is heaving like he’s spent all his magic. A furious blush burns on his cheeks, a very becoming shade of peach that makes Ignis want to kiss him again, laws of gods and men be damned. Is it so wrong to be in love? With Noctis’ hands bound in Ignis’ hair, eyes fervid with adoration, Ignis almost thinks it’s okay.

Almost.

But no matter which way he looks at it, it’s unfair to demand Noctis throw aside his entire kingdom for a servant. That's when Ignis notices his hands have nudged Noct's tee even further up and are currently resting on Noct's hips. Colour draining from his face, he springs away like he's grabbed a cactuar.

Noct notices, of course. He must see the way Ignis is shutting down, the hastily fashioned mask slipping haphazardly over his face. “S-Sorry. For, um, taking advantage and straight up throwing down or whatever. Like, I didn’t mean it.” His eyes widen. “I mean, I didn’t mean _to._ ” He drags a palm down over his face. _“Shit.”_

"You’re intoxicated," Ignis says dizzily. “You should get some rest.”

“Ignis.”

“I’ll see you later.” Ignis all but sprints for the door, tripping on the sunglasses on his way downstairs. 

For a very long time afterwards, Ignis sits in the car clutching the cracked sunglasses, not trusting himself to drive with the way his entire body's shaking. The image of Noct sprawled out in thin cotton, all fever-bright and blown pupils, has burned into his retinas. _The tea,_ he thinks faintly, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. _I never made Noct's tea._ He'd left his jacket there too. To think, he's supposed to be some strategic genius. Ignis groans into his hands, still tingling from the touch of Noct's skin, hysterical laughter threatening to claw its way out of his gullet. Infernian take him, just what is he supposed to do now?

The answer’s less complex than Ignis anticipated.

Simply, they never speak of it. After a dropped comment on how wasted he was and how he can't remember a thing, Noct seems content to pretend it never happened. For his part, Ignis swallows his feelings and follows Noct's lead. And if it hurts to catch a glimpse of Noct staring when he thinks Ignis can’t see him, well, it’s Ignis’ job to protect him. Such a relationship would only end in pain.

The gloves become an everyday staple of Ignis' uniform. If anybody asks, it's a strategic decision to hide his callouses. Let anybody who would do Noct harm underestimate the bookish servant.

Of course, any good strategy has multiple applications.

Ignis is careful never to touch Noct with bare hands again.

* * *

 **vi.** **Noctis Lucis Caelum,** **the King of Light** **(20); Ignis Scientia, Hand of the King (22)**

When each atom of Ignis' fast-fracturing body burns like the sun--

When each raindrop pierces like a bullet against his superheated skin--

When the Accursed's myriad blades slice open his body and the Ring knits his flesh together with molten light--

There is one concept that eclipses the indescribable agony pulsing through Ignis' mortal frame, one word that he chants like a prayer, like a CD stuck on repeat, like that _King's Knight_ level he just can't beat. Like the perfect circle of a ring. Ignis made a promise, and Ignis' word is his bond -- writ in blood and flame.

Ignis always knew he'd light himself on fire to keep Noct from going cold.

* * *

**vii. Ignis and Noct**

Noct never knows.

But in another world, he's tucked under Ignis' arm while _Attack of the Killer Chocobos_ plays out in all its unintentionally hilarious glory. Mog's curled in the nook of Noct's legs; a well-worn blanket's draped across their laps. Wedged in the middle is a bowl of warm popcorn that Ignis can't leave alone. Well, until Noct, in one of his greater acts of insanity, rips open a bag of Skittles with his teeth and upends the contents into said popcorn, giving it a good mix before shovelling a handful of the sweet-and-savoury abomination into his mouth.

"Sacrilege.” Ignis sniffs.

Noct makes a show of swallowing, smiles innocently. Ignis is only tangentially amused. "Don't knock it 'til you try it,” the prince insists as a mutant chocobo plucks out somebody’s eyeball. “You reckon Prom would be traumatised if we showed him this?”

“Most likely.” Ignis carefully picks around the colourful candy, nose wrinkling. Gods, the things he endures. "Is this sort of tradition-breaking going to become _a thing_ when you're king?"

"Yup. I'm also banning vegetables, bringing the Assassin’s Festival to Insomnia, and opening a shelter for lost animals." (Mog chirrups appreciatively.) "Oh, and marrying my advisor."

Ignis fights an impending blush. Any normal person would be accustomed to Noct’s comments by now but Ignis has always been self-conscious when it comes to declarations of affection. Noct had been self-conscious too. Right up until the moment he’d discovered Ignis was even more bashful, that is. Now it was all-out war.

“What if he says no?”

“I will literally shove this fistful of pop-Skittles down his throat until he says yes.”

“Romantic.” Ignis’ mouth quirks. “Though he might have trouble answering if he’s choking to death. Threatening the help is an abuse of royal privilege, you know.”

“One of my many talents.” Noct cups Ignis’ face in his hand, gaze turning fond. Bloody hell, when did Ignis fall so hard? “Love me?” Noct asks, other hand sneaking behind Ignis’ head to play with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Ignis wonders how long he can feign annoyance in the face of somebody so endearing.

“I’ll consider it,” he deadpans, knowing full-well he’s doomed.

“You’re cute when you’re pissy, you know that?” Noct says, cat-like grin spread wide over his face.

Ignis rolls his eyes; Noct pounces.

 _Doomed_ , Ignis thinks, smiling into the kiss.


End file.
